


When Words Fade, Music Speaks

by Pinkmink



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Divergence, Case Fic, Dean Talks About Feelings, M/M, Post 12x15, Season/Series 12, Supernatural Canon Big Bang 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-05 19:42:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11584890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinkmink/pseuds/Pinkmink
Summary: The Brits have Dean running ragged all across the country. When Cas returns from his not-so-brief time in Heaven, Dean finds them a case in New Orleans. It's supposed to feel like a Winchester version of vacation - voodoo, good food and a simple salt and burn. But the trip turns out to be a far more cathartic release than he bargained for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is canon divergent after "Somewhere Between Heaven and Hell" (12x15) written by the amazing Davy Perez. I basically felt inspired to write a little case fic around Castiel coming back from Heaven and all those pesky feelings surrounding his disappearance. Did you enjoy watching Dean slowly drive himself crazy in Castiel's absence? (I did!)
> 
> The art supplied in this fic was done by the brilliant [Dreymart](http://dreymart.deviantart.com/) who read my fic and brought these scenes to life beautifully! As always, this fic is beta'd by [rosie_berber](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosie_berber/pseuds/rosie_berber) who always knows how to best wrangle my prose to something readable.

                         

**Prologue**

 

_“Looking out at the road rushing under my wheels,_

_Looking out at the years gone by likes so many summer fields_

_In sixty-five I was seventeen and running up one-on-one_

_I don’t know where I’m running now - I’m just running on.”_

 

The shot rang out, piercing the night and effectively silencing the grumbles and shouts of the overworked Winchester men. It was a clean sound, carrying with it a pause before the heavy thud of a body dropping. Dean didn’t even wince.

He limped his way over to the fallen figure, ankle injured not from the fight itself, but from the misstep out of the Impala in his haste to get the hunt over with. The blood on his hands was tacky and he rubbed them against soft flannel as he looked down at the single bullet hole to the heart.

“One down, three to go.” Sam’s voice was tired, directly to Dean’s left and yet - there was a hint of pride. Each kill felt like another step towards the end of the line to him. It was as if the marathon they were running suddenly had a shiny yellow ticker tape across it they could potentially break through, and they were rushing at it with renewed purpose.

Well, at least, Sam was.

Dean toed at the werewolf corpse, actively scraping the image from his mind that this creature was a vibrant, healthy woman not that long ago. With dreams and aspirations that didn’t include being shot through the heart as her thirst for human blood hit a crescendo.

When had he stopped remembering that? About each werewolf, each vampire? That they were, at one time, _people_ ?

A bleep from Sam’s phone interrupted his sordid rationalization. The screen lit up their faces in the echoing dark of the warehouse, with a simple message.

 **Hobbits:** _Vetala - Sante Fe, New Mexico - I’m sending your mother too. Go as soon as you’ve burned the bodies._

* * *

 

 

_“Gotta do what you can just to keep your love alive_

_Trying not to confuse it with what you do to survive._

_In sixty-nine I was twenty-one and I called the road my own._

_I don’t know when that road turned, into the one I’m on.”_

 

From twenty feet away, it might as well have been a choreographed dance. Two silver knives, from two experienced hands, plunging into two racing Vetala hearts at once. In sync Sam and Mary clenched their teeth, reaching with their other hand to grip the hilt tightly and twist.

Twin cries escaped the mangled mouths. You might have sympathized if you were only watching them in their last moments, their free limbs grasping air, extended towards the other. Vetala hunt in pairs, and from the sparse intel they’d received these two men - if they can even be called that - had been picking off folks one by one across the country for nearly fifteen years. It was sort of amazing they’d managed to stay off of the Winchester radar this long. The drive to New Mexico had been a loop of Dean’s mental chastation to the eventual soul-crushing conclusion - if they’d missed something this big, maybe they were better off hunting for the Brits.

Maybe the world was actually safer.

The blonde one goes first, his body falling heavily to the ground and beginning to shrivel against cold concrete. The winter white skin decomposes to a dark, ashy grey. His bones crumble inside his flesh. It must be agony. But he never takes his eyes off of his partner, even after they dry up within his skull.

The brunette let out a primal scream before turning to dust at Sam’s feet.

Dean stood, breathless, at the bottom of the basement stairs. They’d gotten separated by - well, it didn’t really matter. He couldn’t remember anyway because the vision of two companions, one blonde, one brunette, reaching for each other in desperation and pain in their last moments - left him feeling like the twisting knife had been in his own heart. 

Reminding him of too many close calls with an angel he hasn’t spoken with in four days.

Sam and Mary were all smiles, triumphant and winded as they wrapped their arms around each other in relief.

“Well, looks like I wasn’t needed here.” Dean tries to sound proud. The words have a bitter taste.

* * *

_  
_

_“Looking out at the road rushing under my wheels_

_Don’t know how to tell you all just how crazy this life feels._

_Looking around for the friends that I used to turn to, to pull me through_

_Looking into their eyes I see them running too.”_

 

The sound of a machete slicing through bone and flesh isn’t loud - until you hear it in an otherwise silent nursing home.

Ghouls themselves are pretty noisy though, which is why it’d be better if this job was over sooner rather than later. The three Winchesters teaming up against a ghoul in the form of an elderly woman in a pink muumuu and slippers. Except when she bared her teeth and sliced Sam’s arm open with the edge of a knitting needle, she was anything but a granny that bakes you cookies and fixes your boo boos.

Dean did the honors as Mary pressed the heel of her hand across wrinkled lips. Blood sprayed them both, hitting Dean just under his eye. He wiped it with the underside of his wrist, unaffected, as the body dropped to the floor - Mary still holding the gaping head secure to her chest. They breathed a sigh of relief in unison.

“Mildred?” An older voice called from the other side of the locked door. It wasn’t an attendant, but the last thing they needed right now was for one of the residents to catch them in what looked like a bloody, horrific murder. They jumped into action - Sam and Dean hauling the twitching body between them and out the open window. Mary stuffed the head in her duffle and threw it over her shoulder.

“Mom - grab the knitting thing!” Sam hissed.

Dean wiped his hands on his jeans, raising an eyebrow. “Dude, seriously?”

Sam slung a leg over the window pane and shrugged. “It’s basically a stake, Dean. Waste not, want not.”

Waiting until Sam and Mary were safely through the window, Dean cast a glance at the grisly scene they were leaving. And though it wasn’t them who’d stolen Mildred’s golden years, he felt a pang of guilt all the same as he looked at the family pictures lining the walls.

And the blood dripping silently from their wooden frames.

“Dean! Come on!”

And for the moment, he was glad that he still could feel the guilt. The alternative was feeling nothing at all.

* * *

_  
_

_Honey, you really tempt me_

_The way you look so kind_

_I’d love to stick around but I’m running behind._

 

_You know, I don’t even know what I’m hoping to find._

_Running into the sun, but I’m running behind._


	2. Chapter 2

Cas is there when they get home, a rumpled pile of messy hair and canvas coat. There’s a book in front of him like he’s been reading but his fingers rest on his temples and his eyes are closed. He’s the very embodiment of the exhaustion Dean feels. 

Still, shortly after he hears the bunker door open he changes his posture, squinting up where the brothers are trudging down the stairs, heavy with blood, carnage and death.

“There he is.”

Dean meant to sound excited, relieved. Instead it comes across accusatory, and isn’t that just exactly how their interactions seem to go. Frustrated with his own inability to express positive emotions, he tries again. “Long time no see, buddy. Where have you been?”

It still sounds harsh. He blames it on the twelve hour drive.

“Around.”

Cas is evasive. That’s not abnormal. What is strange is how Dean doesn’t feel the need to press. The solid foundation of trust runs deep in his veins with his angel. It’s perhaps the sole lifeline he’s clinging to with the uncertainly running undercurrent with his mom and brother. He and Cas are in a good spot.

For crying out loud, the guy said he  _ loved _ them.  _ Him _ . Specifically, him.

In a purely platonic, best friend, brotherly sort of way. But any dude that has the nuts to actually speak those words out loud, well, Dean has to give kudos. And proper weight to them. Cas wouldn’t have said it if he didn’t mean it.

Never mind the tiny, nagging voice in the back of his brain reminding him that his mother has also said she loves him - in a time she was actively lying to him.

He ran a hand across the back of his neck to pull himself from his own melancholy, his eyes catching Sam as his younger brother trudged towards the hall.

“Dean - shower,” he ordered.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Dude, this obsession with my personal hygiene is getting creepy.”

“You do appear to have crusted blood in your wrinkles.” Cas squinted at him.

“Really, Cas? And here I was, coming fresh from a hunt, thinking I was the prettiest girl at the prom.” Nothing gets him in a foul mood quite like the gruesome twosome ganging up on him. But as he trudged off to the bathroom, single finger salute held above his head in clear view, he couldn’t remember a time lately where he’d given that much of a crap if he’d showered or not. Or wore clean clothes. Or given his Baby an oil change.

Or about anything besides the next hunt.

There was probably something to that worth exploring. But Dean was very adept with tuning out the part of his brain that told him he should probably take a more active approach to his life - instead of just going through the motions. At least, he could tune it out temporarily. Enough time to wash the grime from his skin before finding a more sustaining quiet in the form of bitter amber elixir.

Cas hadn’t moved from his chair by the time he got back. In front of him, the book was open to a picture of a classic renaissance painting of angels - something dramatic, hands reaching for one another, faces torn apart with sorrow, someone bleeding from a wound to the gut. It was the same page he’d been looking at before.

Dean didn’t mention it.

He nabbed two beers from the fridge before returning, opening his laptop. It booted with a whirl as he slid the bottle across the table and into the outstretched hand. They didn’t speak, but the silence was comfortable. In a way he’d only ever achieved with his brother. Something was bothering Cas - that much he could see. And he couldn’t tell if he wasn’t prying because he thought Cas needed some space to think, or because he was too damn tired. Either way, it wasn’t from lack of caring.

“This is a good one,” Dean said, gesturing to the half empty bottle after a while. Cas nodded, and something minuscule in his face lost some tension.

Dean found himself on websites he hadn’t explored in weeks - message boards and blogs about the mysterious happenings across the US. They hadn’t needed to look because, well, frankly they weren’t in any need to find a hunt. That part of joining up with the Brits was at least a welcome experience - Dean essentially didn’t have to wait for the next distraction.

Though the jobs had started to blend together...

Filtering through obvious junk, his finger tapped down until it reached a familiar destination. There was always something stirring in New Orleans. It was a breeding ground for hoodoo, witchcraft, vamps - if it’s not natural, it’s probably opened up shop in the French Quarter.

Something different caught his eye - a few murders in various night clubs off of Frenchman. Musicians, mostly - varying in age, sex, race. A string of about six in as many weeks. He turned the laptop to Cas, who raised a brow as he scanned the news story.

“You hear anything about this?” Dean asked, taking a last swig off his beer. His throat still itched - he needed another.

Cas shook his head as his eyes darted across the screen. “No but - it doesn’t fit the profile of your normal hunts. For one thing, these people seem to have been murdered in the normal ways - there’s a shooting, a few stabbings, vehicular manslaughter….”

“Yeah but, so close together? Practically on the same street? Plus, man - it’s New Orleans. There's always some weird shit going down...” Dean picked at the label on his bottle, the paper soft from condensation. He rolled the bits between his fingers and flicked. “I dunno, could be something.”

“Are you certain you’re unbiased?” Castiel sat back in his chair, squaring his shoulders.

“What does that mean?”

“Dean, I know - “ Cas lowered his voice an octave. He glanced towards the hall, like he was checking for Sam. “I know you haven’t found a hunt of your own in a while.”

“I know what to look for, Cas. And I know my guts.” Dean furrowed his brow and sat back, picking an interesting spot on the opposite wall to focus on. The paint was peeling a little around the crown molding - he really ought to touch up that paint...

“It’s not about your ability to find one - you just, have a tendency to want to prove yourself. To the detriment of your own well being, at times.” Cas squinted and drew his mouth to a thin line. Dean opened his mouth to speak but stopped. Because that little confession, those three small words first offered a few weeks past,  had more of an impact than either of them realized. Three words that helped Dean read between the lines, even if he’d rather not.  _ ‘I know you’re hurting. Don’t run into another fight to numb the pain’. _

“Yeah, ok. You’re right. Damn dude, you are  _ not _ pulling any punches tonight.” Dean said, letting a hint of a grin creep across his face. He felt a little exposed but somehow, with Cas - still felt secure. “First you tell me I look disgusting, now you’re telling me I lost my hunting touch. Why don’t you just tell me I suck in bed, and then you’d hit the trifecta of Dean Winchester selling points?”

“I wouldn’t know about your sexual prowess Dean,” Cas deadpanned, raising a dangerous eyebrow. Dean’s stomach dropped. “But your track record of conquests has been in a steady decline since we’ve met, so one could assume…”

“Jesus, Cas, I was joking!” Dean yelped, and watched as a slow smile creeped along the angel’s broad mouth. “Wait - oh you bastard.”

Castiel’s smug expression disappeared behind a bottle as he took another swig. “Still, if you think this is a case, you should go.”

The joke may have been made at his expense, but it relieved some of that invisible load weighing down on Dean’s shoulders. He hadn’t laughed in too long. It felt good to let go of some of that patented Winchester angst - if only for a moment, if only in between drags of beer. So good that Dean was barely thinking when he asked, wide-eyed and smirking. “Wanna come with? Could be fun…”

_ Fun. _ Hunting alongside the Winchesters was many things - back-breaking, blood-soaked, thankless. Fun was not an adjective Castiel would have readily landed on. The case - it held no particular appeal. But looking at Dean, Castiel found himself in a familiar position - one where he could do nothing but comply. And so he nodded, managing to string together a few rationalizations together in response. “I think so - I could use a few days on the road. It’s remarkably helpful to clear your head.”

“And New Orleans is always a kick in the pants.” Dean couldn't help feeling a little excited. A case of his own choosing felt novel after weeks on the road for the Brits. And he could see the tension that had been strapped across Castiel the moment he saw him drop off incrementally as they sat. Maybe they’d talk, maybe they wouldn’t. But at least he could make his friend laugh. And for now, that was enough.

* * *

The next morning brought a fresh text message. Dean rolled over heavily, the brightness from the screen scalding his eyeballs.

 **Hobbits:** _Vampire Nest. Salt Lake City. Meet Mary & Ketch ASAP._

He groaned as he read the time at the top of his phone - just after six. There was not nearly enough coffee in his kitchen to deal with their pompous asses this early in the morning. Plus it was really such a friggin delight to be informed of his mother’s whereabouts by an unrelated third party. But before he could grumble too loudly into his warm pillow, the phone rang.

“Sam?” His voice cracked with sleep.

_ “Hey - you get the text?” _ Sam didn’t sound much more awake than he was.

“Yeah - we gotta set up some boundaries with them, man. Office hours and shit for these hunts.” He wiped the skin around his eyes. “I was actually gonna tell you - I found a case last night. In New Orleans.”

He repeated the specifications of the ‘case’ to his brother, but even after a night of sleep, it didn’t sound like much to go on. Maybe this was just a desperate attempt to feel normal again.

_ “Hmmm, yeah, you’re right. Could be nothing. Could be something though - you should go.” _ Sam paused, then added like a realization.  _ “And take Cas.” _

“Mhm...” Dean snuggled a little deeper under the covers as the chill of the bunker nipped at his face. “Why do I get the impression you’re just trying to be rid of me for a few days?”

He could hear Sam huff a laugh on the other end of the line.  _ “Yeah maybe. This work we’ve been doing for the Brits has been good, but it’s not your kind of work, Dean. You like the investigation part. You like to see the people we save.” _

Dean stretched, and something in his neck gave an audible pop. “You do too.”

_ “Yeah, but I’m not the one forgetting to shower.” _

Dean frowned. “Fair.”

_ “Take Cas, man. I’ll go help Mom. We’ll meet back here in a few days.” _

“Ok yeah, sounds good.” Much to his own discomfort, he pulled back the sheets and sat up. No sense lying here any longer - he wasn’t going to be able to get back to sleep anyway.

_ “And Dean?” _

“Yeah?”

_ “Pack at least six pairs of underwear.” _


	3. Chapter 3

It was sort of a tradition for Dean to play Chicago as he drove into New Orleans. Tradition of course born out of the sheer number of times they’d been dragged to the city under the sea line. Perhaps it was also to pep up the last leg of the trip, as it isn’t exactly scenic - not compared to the city itself. Long, busy highways lead them through grey and brown buildings against a foggy sky. He’s convinced the sun doesn’t come out until you hit Esplanade Avenue. 

But that sort of tradition is for happy road trips. What Dean was currently experiencing was anything - but.

The drive had started off pretty normal - Castiel was quiet but not unusually so, and Dean’s company seemed to put him at ease, relatively speaking. The gears in his angelic brain needed greasing, they turned so loudly. But Dean doesn’t push, didn’t try to get the angel to talk. Not through the first day of driving, or the night spent at the “Sleep and Go” off of I-49.

But their second day, just five hours of driving still ahead of them, a cup of coffee and a bearclaw in, Dean couldn’t help himself.

“So, where were you? Last week?” Dean kept his tone conversational, light. He knows that he has a tendency to sound accusatory with the angel - it's an extension of his bravado - but he doesn’t want that to come across now. Not when it’s just the two of them, a puzzle of a case, and a city full of booze and beauty.

Hell, for Dean Winchester, that’s practically the perfect date.

Castiel looked out the window for a while before he responds. His eyes track and follow the edge of the highway, back and forth like he’s studying the way the grass ends and the gravel begins.

“I was in Heaven.”

Dean tries, he really does, not to react. To an extent, he’s trained himself over the years not to in far more desperate situations. When he’s being interrogated, tied to a chair and questioned, even so much as a flinch can mean the difference between life and death. So when Dean manages to grip the wheel tighter and respond through clenched teeth, it’s only because he’s hiding the fact that he wants to pull over along the side of the highway and explode.

“What do you mean, Heaven?” he asked, turning to face Cas for a moment. The angel didn’t look away from the passenger side window. “Did someone grab you? You hurt? What happened?!”

He hoped that Cas would realize his anger was really just a loud manifestation of his worry and panic. The angel seemed to as he sighed.

“I’m unhurt Dean, yes. I was met by an angel in Coeur D’Alene named Kelvin.” Cas said. “He persuaded me that it would be worth my while to pay a visit.”

“And you just went? Without telling us?” Dean’s internal  _ ‘...without telling me?’ _ lingers unsaid.

“They have some ideas, about the Nephilim,” he said, rubbing his hand along the back of his neck. “They’re - extreme, to put it mildly. But it's good to have options.”

“You wanna elaborate on what kind of ‘options’ those dickwads came up with, Cas?” Dean tried to keep the hysterics out of his voice. It was a losing battle.

Castiel finally turned to Dean, narrowing his eyes. “They want to hasten unleashing pure evil onto this world as much as we do. They’ve got, as you’re so apt to put, ‘skin in this game’ as well.” He paused, his fists clenching on his thighs. “They aren’t all dickwads, Dean. Some of them,  _ many of them _ , are still my brethren.”

It’s perhaps overly dramatic to say Castiel’s words suck the oxygen right from the car. But for Dean, as his chest constricts painfully, that’s exactly what it feels like.

“I thought we were your family, Cas,” he spits.

From across leather, Castiel’s expression softens marginally. “Dean, I didn’t - that’s not what I meant.”

“No, I get it.” Dean lets his hands slide down the steering wheel. A yellow sign approaches and they speed past, signalling two hundred miles to New Orleans. Two hundred miles to take his hurt and shove it so deep he’ll just feel numb. “Look, we’ve all made death confessions, alright? I’m not gonna hold you to it.”

Castiel has now turned most of his body towards Dean, his left arm stretching across the back of the seat. “Why would I say that if I didn’t mean it?” His hand was almost touching Dean’s shoulder. He felt hyper aware of it, pulling away slightly to keep himself from relishing in the false warmth of the offer.

“People say stuff they don’t mean all the time, Cas. Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve done that.”

Maybe he means to sound as spiteful as it comes across. He’s aware that it’s going to strike a chord, hit the angel where it counts. Good. He doesn’t want to be the only one in the car hurting. And he doesn’t want anyone, ever again and as long as he lives, to tell him that they love him when they’re also lying.

Better to keep your feelings to yourself than be a damn hypocrite. Dean should know - he’s been doing it for years.

The drive after was tense and silent straight into the French Quarter. Bright banners and streamers lined the populous streets. Their trip falling just after Mardis Gras, the city looked like it was waking up from the most beautiful, colorful hangover - and then hit the continue button. It was only noon however, and on a Wednesday to boot, so the tourist crowd was somewhat subdued as they drove along one way streets.

“It’s been many years since I’ve been this far into the quarter.” Castiel tried his first words in three hours. They fell flat against cracked leather and sat there. They drove the rest of the way in relative silence - the only sound Dean’s phone, chirping directions happily to the bar on Frenchman.

They managed to find parking on a side street after minimal muttered curses. Dean double checked the rear and front bumpers, stopping short of getting out a ruler to make sure there was a safe distance between the two cars he was parallel parked with. Castiel didn’t even try to hide his rolling eyes.

“Our cover’s that we’re musicians.” Dean said gruffly. He popped the trunk and rummaged for his leather jacket. It was stuffed in the corner behind the bullets and smelled of gunpowder as he pulled it on. Too hot for leather, but it would have to do.

There was still the issue of the tax accountant next to him, conspicuously clad in three layers of starched cotton. Castiel stuck out like a sore thumb, and as usual, hadn’t seemed to notice.

“Lose the trench coat. And the blazer,” Dean ordered and with a grimace, Castiel acquiesced. His clothing piled on top of Dean’s shed flannel until he was down to his white button up and tie.

He still looked ridiculous.

“Here,” Dean muttered. He stepped forward and undid the blue tie with little grace, yanking it from the angel’s neck. The buttons went next, quickly unbuttoning to just below the dip in his collarbone. He reached for the sleeves just as he realized how incredibly intimate the moment was - basically undressing the angel in the middle of the damn street. And with that thought, he jumped back like he’d been burned.

“Just, uh, roll up your sleeves a bit. And here - wear these.” Dean tossed him a pair of sunglasses.

“We’re going to be inside?” Cas frowned as he rolled his sleeves up past tanned forearms. He gave the glasses a cursory glance before fitting them on his face.

Suddenly, Castiel looked anything but ridiculous.

Dean coughed and closed the trunk.

_ The Spotted Cat _ was on the edge of Frenchman, looking on the outside more like a cafe then a seedy jazz bar. Large windows stretched across the front, giving a perfect view for passers by a small stage where a young woman sat, plucking at guitar strings. Her low, gentle voice grew louder as they pushed past the large red door.

 

_ Every honeybee.... fills with jealousy _

_ When they see you out with me _

_ I don't blame them....goodness knows _

_ Honeysuckle rose _

 

_ When you're passin' by....flowers drop and sigh _

_ And I know the reason why _

_ You're much sweeter....goodness knows _

_ Honeysuckle rose _

 

The interior of the club was a lot more what you’d picture as a jazz bar, even with the midday sunshine streaming from the storefront window. A local crowd gathered around the stage, some sitting in folding chairs, others standing and swaying. It wasn’t loud but people were talking to each other, keeping on eye on the musician. A couple in the corner couldn’t be bothered to look anywhere besides one another, pressed against the side of a dirty wooden piano. 

The young man behind the bar was bustling, his movements unconsciously matching the cadence of the music. He filled two pints of beer until the foam spilled over and onto his hands.

“What can I get you fellas?” The bartender glanced up as he reached under for a cheap looking handle of whiskey. Dean leaned against the bar and nodded towards the taps.

“Uh - two beers - whatever’s local,” Dean replied. He suddenly realized he was quite stuck, and carefully peeled the arm of his leather coat from the stick of the wood. Hiding his mild disgust, he added, “And maybe info on some places looking for a few good musicians?”

The bartender scoffed as he pulled two pint glasses from the sink. “This is Nola buddy - no one’s  _ looking _ for musicians. You can’t throw a rock down the street without hittin’ a dozen.”

Right - jazz capital of the world, not exactly hurting for musicians. Time for a different approach. “See, my buddy and I here, we play a different kind of set...” Dean raised his eyebrows, not even fully sure what he was implying but trying to make it sound as interesting as possible. The bartender, for how little he cared before, pursed his lips and squinted.

“Oh yeah? What is it that you two ‘do’ exactly?”

Dean looked to Cas for some damn help. But the angel at his side was enthralled - broad hand resting on the petri dish posing as a bar, the rest of his body turned towards the woman still crooning sad, beautiful lyrics alongside a guitar with too many strings. Her voice was smooth as honey poured over hot stones, and carried across the room a melody he’d heard before, but couldn’t name. She was slight, thin and sharp, short curly red hair contained within a colorful scarf wrapped around her head. Contoured muscles flexed as she struck fast chords, leaning forward to whisper a few more breathy words into the microphone. Plush pink lips shaped into a small smile, like she harbored a mischievous secret.  

And as mad as he wanted to be at the angel for leaving him to do all the heavy lifting with this bartender, he couldn’t deny finding enjoyment in the way Cas could let the rest of the world fade into the background and focus so intently. He took deep breaths, matching the rhythm. Dean had never seen Cas so taken by music. He was suddenly filled with a desire to take him all around the city. Drag him into seedy bars and dank clubs after dark, press against him in a swaying crowd packed so tightly it broke every firecode in the book. Feel him hum against his chest with the chords. Maybe they’d dance just slightly, swaying together in a musical trance as the humidity of the room rose…..

“Sorry, yes - “ Cas was talking again at the bartender, and Dean had to blink a few times come back to earth.

Cas took off his sunglasses, blue eyes peering across the bar. Perfectly deadpan with a serious expression, he took a swig of beer, not bothering to wipe the foam from his lip before saying, “I play the accordion. Aguilera here plays the banjo. We’re not like anything you’ve ever seen.”

Dean was struck at once between the desire to hit Cas and laugh out loud. Instead he shook his head, near imperceptible, and blinked slowly at the man behind the counter. Who had apparently not found any humor in Castiel’s words. A testimate to how odd this city really is.

“I haven’t heard of a duet like that before - you two must really put on a show.”

“You have no idea…” Dean murmured, hiding his face in his beer.

The man gave them another look over before reaching into his pocket for his phone. “Actually, there’s some guys playing tonight that have been looking for a good opening act. Clubs’ called Ange over on Decatur. Actually, lotta local musicians go there to jam some nights. You guys heard of it?”

The street sounds familiar, but the club didn’t. And truthfully they didn’t have much to go on, so this seemed as good a start as any to see if there was even a case here. Dean glanced at Cas, who still hadn’t wiped away the foam from his upper lip. He grimaced and pointed to his own mouth, which only lead to Cas cocking his head to the side in confusion.

How a man can be a damn walking encyclopedia and yet miss shit on his own face….

“Yeah, uh no - never heard of it. But we’ll check it out, thanks.” Dean leaned forward and swiped a hand across Castiel’s lips. The gesture was very mothering, but at least he doesn’t look like an idiot now.

He also decided to pointedly ignore how smooth Castiel’s lips are. No reason to focus on that.

The bartender looked between them and smirked. Tipping his head with a laugh, he added “Yeah, I have a feeling it will be  _ right  _ up your alley.”

* * *

 

 

Back at the hotel, things are no more chummy between them. Honestly, it’s starting to feel like at this point they’ve been at odds more often than not - and it’s wearing on Dean. Maybe it’s because despite all of their ups and downs, every apocalypse, near death experience - every wrong thing that’s happened in the last eight years - he could count on Cas. Surprisingly enough, even when he really couldn’t. Even when the angel presented his own betrayal, his own lies. None of it was ever due to Castiel being malicious or neglectful - the guy has tried to do the right thing for Dean since the moment he pulled his sorry ass from the pit. 

And there’s just something to that - it sort of sticks in Dean’s head like an earworm he can’t work out. However foolish or ill executed - Cas is always trying to save Dean.

Which is why his quiet trip to Heaven hurts so much. Part of it is the lack of communication, sure. It feels like crushed salt in the wound left by his mother. But the bigger part is that he knows Cas went there in some small way to help Dean. The fact that he’d associate himself with people who’d hurt him so badly for Dean’s sake - it turned his stomach. 

Of course, this argument would be long since resolved if Dean could only express how he was feeling in the English language. As it stood, he was silent and grumpy, fixing his hair for the fourth time in front of the dingy mirror.

“It’s dark. We should go now.” Castiel’s voice is behind him, gruff and maybe a little sad. He’s changed into a dark pair of jeans and a black shirt and looks every bit the part of the star accordion player he’s posing as. And strikingly hot.

Dean’s not sure at what point he gave up trying not to notice when Cas looked particularly good. He used to have a great deal more discipline in the act - maybe he’s just old and tired. He at least is able to stop himself from giving the angel more than a quick once over as he turned his attention to his own reflection in the mirror. He doesn’t answer, just nods and turns towards the door.

He’s not sure what a modern banjo player should look like, so he’s settled on “low key rockstar” instead - basically his normal wardrobe without the flannel. Which makes him feel a little naked. Luckily it’s a hot night, the temperature outside not really feeling any different than when the sun was out. But the air has a charge to it, like you could stay out all night and never get tired.

The streets are packed with people as they drive closer, so obviously the feeling isn’t affecting just them. Women in leggings and tiny shorts walk with colorful cups, strings of beads hanging from their necks. The men look like idiots, bumping into each other drunkenly and starting playful fights.

It’s only 9:00 for crying out loud. Freaking amateurs.

At least the architecture is beautiful - the buildings older, balconies of green filigree and painted wood. They spot the club just off the main road. Dean eyes it as they drive by - big neon “Ange” flashing, dozens of younger people gathering by the door with anticipation. He slows down a bit to get a better look.

“There seems to be a disproportionate amount of men to women,” Castiel frowns as he peers at the crowd.

Dean nods. He’s right - way more dudes than ladies. Dudes with arms around each other, looking real chummy - joking and laughing.

_ And kissing _ .


	4. Chapter 4

“Dean - is there a problem?”

Problem? Oh no, there’s no problem.

Dean’s hands grip the leather of the steering wheel tightly as he turns sharply with wide eyes to face the road.

Why would there be a problem? Just a gay bar he’s going to have to try to “fit in” - with Cas. Probably involving standing close, touching, dancing...

Yeah. This is going to go _real_ well.

“Nope.” He popped the “p” as he pulled his baby along the road. Killing the engine, he took a deep breath and turned to the angel, who still wore a frown. He didn’t believe Dean - but at least he wasn’t going to push it.

“Looks like it’s a gay bar so - we’re gonna need to look the part.” Dean pulled his lips to a thin line. “Think you can handle that?”

“I’m certain I can manage, Dean.” Castiel scowled. “Can you can handle it? You’ve hardly spoken to me today.”

There’s a weariness behind Castiel’s words, and it should deflate Dean, make him want to actually talk before they embark on this. But he’s so charged with panic he can hardly manage to concentrate. And some small part of him is looking forward to pretending to get along with Cas. Because at this point he’d rather have a few minutes of normalcy than deal with the very real possibility that Cas was lying about loving him. “Just don’t got anything to say.” Dean yanked the keys from the ignition and opened the door. “You coming?”

He doesn’t look at Cas for confirmation, but isn’t surprised to hear his irritated “of course,” followed by a slammed door.

Castiel trailed Dean through the crowded streets. It was pretty loud, and you could hear the sounds of a funk band blasting inside. There’s nothing quite like the energy of live music, and it was channeled through the dozens of people lining the streets. The city was filled with men and women from all walks of life. Some were drunk, talking and gesturing wildly at their friends. Others focused on their phone, hardly noticing the rambunctiousness of the crowd next to them. Old and young people alike were lined up to the bar next door, steam rising just above them from a crawfish boil. The air was a mix of salt and smoke from cigarettes - it almost made him hungry.

A large man blocked the entrance to the club, checking IDs. He looked them over with a skeptical eye as they handed them over. Tonight, Dean was John Bonham. Castiel was Nick Carter.

He really needs to stop letting Castiel chose his own aliases.

“You guys do know what kinda this club is, right?” the guard asked.

Dean didn’t think. He just reached out and grabbed Castiel’s hand. It felt broad and soft within his own. Cas stiffened a little but remained silent, and Dean was quick to flash a fake smile.

“Yeah,” he winked. “We know.”

And it - was - _on_.

They didn’t stop holding hands as they made their way through across the room. It was filled to the brim with hot, sweaty bodies dancing to the music blasting from the stage. The band was made up of about six black men of various ages, all but one playing some sort of brass horn, the last on electric guitar. When they paused to take in their surroundings, Castiel leaned forward into Dean space. He was entirely too close to just speak, their chests nearly touching. Dean could feel his breath hitch.

The rumble of Castiel’s voice vibrated against his ear. “Let’s get a drink.”

Dean closed his eyes and nodded, willing himself to keep it together. He was in for a long night.

The bartenders seemed to be incredibly adept at reading lips seeing as the volume didn’t decrease wherever they were in the club. Dean ordered them two whiskeys, hoping something strong would settle his nerves. Castiel didn’t really look at him as they squished together in the small space where a barstool should fit. And maybe Dean was feeling a little indignant since Castiel’s small intrusion of personal space had given him such a sharp thrill. After all, as far as he was concerned, he was the person leading this operation.

So in moving his pawn across the board in their little game, he reached out and put his arm around Castiel’s waist. It felt odd to do that because he’d only ever been in such a position with a woman before, and women had far softer curves than what fit under his hand now. Instead his fingers dug into lean, straight muscle. If he reached just a bit further to hook the top of his fingers into Castiel’s belt loop well, he couldn’t really be blamed. After all, he was just playing the part for the case.

Castiel turned his head quickly at the gesture and suddenly, the two men were very close. Almost-kissing close. Dean could see exactly how dark his blue eyes has become in the low light, and watch his pupils dilate.

His whiskey had not yet arrived, but Dean was, without a doubt, intoxicated.

Castiel, however, seemed otherwise unaffected by their new proximity -  which was just plain irritating. He raised a single eyebrow almost in question, but something in his eyes made it clear that he knew the answer.

The drinks couldn’t come soon enough. Dean drained his and flashed two fingers at the bartender for another. Whiskey fell hard in his gut, but left his lips tingling.

The last song ended to raucous applause. The guy to the left of Dean was particularly boisterous, taking off his hat to wave it around frantically as he hollered towards the stage. Dean let go of Castiel’s belt loop to turn and question the man. He may or may not have let his fingers graze across the angels lower back a hair slower than necessary.

Just playing the part.

“Who are those guys?” Dean asks, planting on his best smile. It’s well received - the man next to him, several years younger with, dark, plush skin and even darker eyes, flashed a smile right back at him. He’s so immediately responsive to Dean’s charms, it’s actually really flattering. Maybe he should have been trolling gay bars for an ego boost a long time ago.

_Just_ for the ego boost, of course.

“Big Chief Bongo and the Frenchman Four - and they’re fuckin sick. I used to play horns with a few of the guys back in high school. You like em?” The guy raises a curious eyebrow at Dean. “You don’t seem like the funk type, handsome.”

“He isn’t,” Castiel interjects loudly and directly behind Dean’s shoulder. A broad hand slicked across Dean’s stomach and if he didn’t know any better, he’d say Cas was playing territorial. Cas grasped him tighter suddenly, pulling Dean’s ass flush against his crotch. It took everything Dean had not to melt into his touch or let his head fall back against the angel. His could feel his pulse hasten, his body electrified by the action. He suddenly felt so _claimed_ ; every muscle and nerve ending thrilled at the prospect.

 

[](http://imgur.com/LuqRgf6)

Except that somewhere in the back of Dean’s brain, some part that wasn’t singularly focused on Castiel’s body pressed firm against his own, reminded him that they were, in fact, here for a case. Castiel playing territorial boyfriend wasn’t going to get them any information - and this guy, being a local musician, and into Dean, was a pretty good place to start.

“Back off Cas. I’m busy.” Dean rolls his eyes at the man in front of him, trying to feign annoyance with Castiel’s affections. In truth, he misses that hand the moment it’s dropped - and he absolutely misses that feeling against his backside. Dean turns his head sharply, trying to give Cas an expression he hopes to convey that he’s not being serious - that it’s just for the case.

Why he feels the need to clarify this, he doesn't’ immediately question. Must be the booze.

Instead he’s met with blue eyes that seem to have grown an extra bag underneath them. “I’ll, uh - I’ll see you around,” he mumbles. Cas throws the rest of his drink back, slams the glass back on the bar and disappears into the crowd. Dean can’t help watching him for a moment, before the case at hand interrupts his thoughts.

“Well isn’t he dramatic - are you two-?”

“No! He wishes….” Dean clarifies as he straightens his posture. So much for pretending they were fine for a night. He takes a deep breath before trying to remember his mission here is for information, not to make Castiel jealous.

“So uh, you a local? I just got into town today and I keep hearing about a bunch of murders?” Dean laughs a little trying to act a bit more drunk than he feels. It’s working - his new friend props an elbow against the bar, resting his chin in his hand. “So I’m thinkin I should get out while I’m still alive?”

That earns him an easy laugh. “Well it’s New Orleans, man. Hell, I’ve grown up here, I know every inch of the quarter and you know, it still surprises me.”

“Seriously though.” Dean fingers the side of his now empty whiskey glass. He half hopes it’s sexy looking, half hopes the bartender will take a hint. “Seems odd, even for here. You guys are way more into voodoo dolls and that crap than murder.”

“Voodoo dolls, huh?” The man gives Dean a quizzical look. “I don’t know about that. For what it’s worth, the murder trend does seem to follow the next band around a bit. But, uh - I’d hate to see you leave now...” He nodded towards the stage where another group of men were nearly finished setting up.

“Oh yeah? Who are they?”

“The Basin Street Vipers. Been around a while though, murders are only recent.” He smiles as he gestured towards the crowd. “And they have one hell of a sound, man. All the crap surrounding them ain't stopping people from coming out to listen.”

“Clearly…” Dean mumbles as he watches one of the men, dressed in a dark short sleeved shirt and dark jeans, raises a trumpet to his lips. His shoulders throw back as he takes a breath and blows - a clear, high C note ringing across the ambient noise of the room.

For a moment, most voices hush. It isn’t as if you could hear a pin drop, but it’s certainly a fraction as loud as it was before. He does it again, this time holding a long A. It’s crisp like a bell, and even more voices are silenced. The man with the trumpet pulls his lips away and smiles a little, proud that he could control the crowd in such a way before opening his mouth to yell.

“Two, three, four!”

And suddenly the rest of the band erupts into pure funk. Horns are blaring in perfect harmony with each other, and Dean can feel the bass beat within his chest. The music is everywhere, in his heart, in his mind, coursing through his veins. He closes his eyes and surrenders to it, taking a deep breath of hot air and breathing out any thoughts about the case.

Because suddenly, he has to find Cas.

He leaves the bar to an audible protest from his new friend, but he can’t find it in him to care. Eyes scan the crowd restlessly for tan overcoat until he remembers that Castiel was wearing that delicious black t-shirt. The thought pools heat in his groin and he shakes his head to try to clear it. No time for the now - he has to find the angel.

“Cas!” he calls frantically, trying to look above the crowd. He’s never needed to find him in a public place before, and suddenly wishes for a moment he had his gigantor of a brother there to look above all of these heads. There’s just so many damn people, all facing the band with gleeful faces, completely oblivious to the struggles of Dean trying to move around them.

“Dean!” He hears the grumbled voice coming somewhere to his left just barely over the sound of blaring horns. Dean doesn’t think, he just moves towards the sound, elbowing crowds of people to the side like it was a matter of life or death that he reach Cas as soon as possible.

And just like that the angel is there, right in front of him. He’s winded, hair pulled in different directions - and as unusually beautiful as the day Dean first laid eyes on him in that barn. Cas reaches out, gripping Dean’s bicep tightly and opens his mouth to speak - but Dean beats him to it.

“I’m sorry!” he blurts over the the music. “I didn’t want you to go away. I was trying to get information from that guy, and I thought if I hit on him he’d give it up…”

“I know, I’m sorry. I got jealous. I’ve never seen you hit on a guy and I didn’t like it.” Cas said as they drew even closer to hear each other.

“I didn’t want to.” Dean explains. “I liked what you were doing. It felt nice. I haven’t been touched like that in a long time.”

“Me neither,” Cas yelled back, now nearly so close Dean could feel his breath against his cheek. The light was lower closer to the stage so it was hard to make out an exact expression, but it looked almost as if the angel was smiling. Such a rare event, when those lips peeled back with joy, Dean couldn’t hardly help the way his hand gravitated towards them, running the tip of his thumb just at the corner.

“I missed you, Cas. When you were gone, in Heaven.” The smile broadened - not showing any teeth, but like he was trying to hold something within his mouth that was trying to escape. Dean pressed closer, letting the tip of his nose brush against short sideburns. “I always miss you.”

No sooner had the words left Dean’s lips than the song ended. The crowd roared all around them but time was frozen as their eyes met. In a blink, the moment was shattered without the steady thrum of the bass. And suddenly, Dean was incredibly aware of their position - their hands gripping each other, their mouths tantalizingly close. His heart and mind were currently engaged in a three legged race, and tripping all over themselves to figure out one critical concept:

Why the hell had he just said all of that out loud?!

Castiel jerked away, casting his blue eyes to the crowd like he’d been struck and was searching for the perpetrator. Dean straightened too, and suddenly needed to be anywhere but in this room. Panic rose in his throat and he swallowed and coughed.

“We should- uh-” He jerked his thumb towards the exit.

“Yes.”

They became blurs against the crowd, ditching the party before they could even hear the start of the next song. The chrome of the Impala had never looked so inviting in pale street light, but Dean didn’t feel any better once they were inside. Because they were still - together. And for some reason, had divulged feelings Dean wasn’t even consciously aware that he’d had. He took a breath before starting the engine, the roar doing little to silence his brain.

He debated speaking to it, the weirdness that just befell them in the club, at least in jest. After all, it felt uncontrollable, the way the truth of the evening and his feelings for Cas had spilled from his lips. He felt like a balloon someone had poked a hole in, and was powerless to stop the slow leak. At least now he found that all of his emotions were rebottled tightly and stored away where even he couldn’t have access to them.

“Well, that was a bust!” he spoke boisterously and quite suddenly, and in the passenger seat Castiel jumped. Dean half expected the angel to bring up what just happened, but he seemed just as eager to forget the whole thing.

“Sounds like you didn’t get much from that guy.” Cas’ voice was oddly light. Nevermind that Dean hadn’t actually said anything about the conversation itself to Cas - he was right. And he sure as shit didn’t want to bring it up again.

“Nah.” Dean pulled them away from the curb and into the bright night. “We’re just gonna have to try again tomorrow somewhere else. Anyway, I’m beat. Let’s head back.”

It was all of 11:00 - not exactly a late night in Winchester terms. And Dean was so wired he felt like he could feel the pollen in the air dance across his skin. But Cas murmured an agreement anyway.

They didn’t speak for the rest of the night.


	5. Chapter 5

“You don’t know what you’re missing!”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “That’s precisely the point, Dean. A beignet will simply taste like nothing to me. Why would I waste my time and your food?”

Dean fought the urge to stick out his tongue. Instead he folded his arms, sticky though they’d become, and shrugged. “More for me then.”

Cas tapped his foot against the concrete and faced the enormous white church near the outside of the park they sat in. They hadn’t spoken much this morning either, and what words had been exchanged were in harsh tones. Nothing about the last few days was sitting right with either of them, and it manifested in this charged energy. It almost felt like if Dean were to reach out and touch the trenchcoat a safe distance away, a spark might fly off and start a fire.

“Why don’t you go on ahead of me,” he said with a mouthful of dough. They’d walked across the street from Cafe Du Monde to a park to sit and let Dean eat his beignets without coating himself in powdered sugar. The plan was to check out the other clubs on Frenchman after, see what they could stir up. Right now, the only thing that Dean was certain they were stirring up was each other. “Let a man enjoy his breakfast dessert in peace.”

Cas was gone before Dean even looked up.

Without the angel, Dean felt his shoulders drop. The very last thing he wanted to do was be alone with his own thoughts, but anything was better than this awkwardness between them. The way the words had poured out of him last night like a faucet was more than just out of character for him - it was scary. He was compelled to say those things, and what's worse - he wasn’t even totally sure he’d thought them through before. Though now, after saying up most of the night thinking about it, he was certain - he’d liked the feeling of Cas wrapped around him. He’d liked the knowledge that Cas didn’t want anyone else to touch him.

And he liked that Cas knew how much he was missed.

In the light of day though, all of these things were considerably more difficult to deal with. Especially because he found that when he did actually open his mouth to speak, what came out wasn’t so much an explanation as it was more harsh words and half truths. He could blame it on his emotionally stunted upbringing, or the fact that the consistent people in his life, those that claimed to love him, lied to him often enough that it was impossible to tear down that final wall. The wall that would allow him to speak his innermost feelings.

And ask for what he  _ actually  _ wanted.

But who was he kidding, really? The only person he had to blame for that wall was himself.

He took a deep breath and stood, letting the powdered sugar collected on his flannel fall onto his shoes. The walk to Frenchman wasn’t long, and he’d left enough time between Castiel’s departure to buy himself a few more solitary minutes to enjoy the city before facing those blue eyes again.

The smell of patchouli and sage hits him before he can really identify its source. To his left as he walks, squished within the crevice of a closed down storefront and it’s windows, an old woman dressed in black sits in an old Saints folding chair, huddling over a rickety TV tray. Its coated with scarves, hues of dark purples and blues, and scattered knick knacks clutter the surface. A street fortune teller, he determines, and tries his best to keep moving. Those sorts have a tendency, even if they are completely bogus, to pick up  _ something _ on Dean. Probably leftover grace or something equally obscure.

He’s just barely past her and reaching inside his bag for beignet number three, when he hears her graveled voice call out.

“Music is truth, my boy, and it will set you free.”

He stops short, frustrated. He’d almost made it. Turning, he asks, “What?”

“You heard me, son. Take my advice to heart.” She’s not raised her head from its position below her shoulders. The incense lightly burning picks up the slight breeze, ominously twisting smoke around her like a snake.

“I’m not the one who has a problem with the truth,” he grumbles, taking an indigent bite of fried dough.

Her laugh carries further than her voice, and a few of the passersby flinch away at the sudden noise. “What a thing to say! Perhaps you don’t know your own truths. Anyway, that’s all they’ve shared with me,” she continues, her voice trailing and dismissive. “Goodbye now, righteous man.”

Every freaking time. Every freaking time he comes to New Orleans he runs into one of these kooks that knows just way too damn much about him. He can’t help but inquire further. “Alright, I’ll bite. Who’s they?”

She turns finally, a single green eye peering up at him under a nest of black grey hair. “Spirits, darling. They’re awfully loud around you. Of course, they’re always shouting at me!” Her face cracks into a toothless smile and she laughs again, this time louder and more manic. Her body shakes and the incense burns its last bit of stick, extinguishing itself. Dean rolls his eyes and keeps walking, the echo of her bouncing around the covered walkway. It's a few blocks before he can’t hear her anymore.

But the words stick with him as he approaches Frenchman St, and he turns them over and over again in his head like a beat up penny. The truth, huh? Which truth is that exactly? The truth that he can’t trust his own mother, his own brother, to be honest about their dealings with the Brits? The truth that Cas shut him out again, going to Heaven and putting himself in danger without even thinking for a moment Dean might have a vested interest in that fact?

Or was she talking about the bigger truths. The truth that Dean has been trying to screw and eat everything in sight to fill this gaping hole inside of himself. The truth that he’s never felt so lost, so lonely, as when he’s had his family closest.

Or the truth that when Castiel pulled him in last night, and Dean felt his warm breath on his skin, that he’d never craved another person’s touch like that? Like the loss of it was akin to the loss of a limb and he ached in its absence?

He crushed the paper bag between his hands, the last vestiges of powdered sugar poofing upward like a cloud of smoke.

* * *

The first thing Dean noticed as he drew nearer to last night’s club was Castiel. He was standing apart from the large crowd that had amassed. There were flashing lights and police cars, and yellow caution tape being unfurled. But on the outskirts stood the angel, fixated and unblinking towards the direction of the sun. He fell within its rays, the rest of the bustle becoming a darkened blur around him.

Dean stopped and stared. He couldn’t help it. The guy was just so freaking  _ unworldly _ . He looked ancient and warrior like, standing with his feet shoulder length apart and his hands clenched. It almost looked as if he were communicating with something - and Dean had seen him looking like that before. Maybe he was on angel radio? The thought of him talking to his brethren made Dean’s stomach drop again. He had briefly forgotten how angry he was at Cas for scooting off to Heaven while he was too busy gaping over how powerful he looked in the middle of the street. With a huff, he shook himself off and walked towards him.

“What’s going on?” Dean grumbled. Cas turned to him slowly, like he was coming out of a daze. He blinked a few times blankly, so Dean jerked his head towards the hubbub.

“I’m hearing that there were some other murders last night,” he said, tilting his head a little. “It’s sort of hard to pick apart the voices of the officers from the rest of these people.”

“I’ll just go ask them.” Dean frowned and patted his pocket for his badge. “Is that what you were doing, standing here? Trying to eavesdrop?”

Castiel has this way of looking at Dean like he’s the world's biggest idiot. It involves the tell tale squint, but the one he reserves particularly for Dean also includes the tiniest snarl. And Dean would be lying if he said it wasn’t just a  _ hair _ sexy. “What else would I be doing?”

“I dunno,” Dean gestured over his head wildly. “Talking to your new buddies upstairs, maybe? Who knows what you’ve been up to?”

The squint became even squintier. “I was listening to the crowd, Dean, because in case you didn’t remember, we posed as gay musicians. We can’t exactly go and claim we’re FBI now.”

Oh. Well shit. Cas had a point. And maybe if Dean hadn’t been so wrapped up in that hoodoo lady and drooling over the angel, he’d have remembered. He coughed and shook his head. “Right. Let’s uh, see if we can talk to someone local.”

Dean was grasping at straws as he darted away, looking through the crowd for - what exactly? Maybe a person who looked sadder than the rest? God, it was pretty terrible to be searching for the saddest person around to go harass, but hell, that’s really what he’s being doing all his life. The worst kind of profiling. You’d think he’d be used to it by now.

Everyone seemed pretty melancholy, but no one was falling over themselves with grief. Maybe it wasn’t a local? A woman clutching her chest looked sort of promising until his eyes fell on that guy from the club last night. He was standing with another group of men, all looking pretty somber. Most of them were carrying a large black instrument box, of varying sizes. The one in his hand was more compact - a trumpet maybe?

Dean hesitated for only a moment before heading towards him. It was the best lead they had - but the memories of how jealous Cas had gotten last night still had his head spinning. Before he could think too much he reached out, patting the man on his shoulder.

“Hey,” Dean said, and the man turned to him sharply. It took a second for him to recognize Dean, but once he did, his features relaxed.

“Well, if it isn’t that handsome runaway from last night? Left before you even caught my name. It’s Harrison, by the way.” His words held a gentle fondness, but his voice cracked a little. He raised an eyebrow at Castiel, who stood behind Dean. “Look’s like someone caught you, though. Congratulations, sir.”

“Uh, thanks,” Castiel answered awkwardly.

Dean’s face felt hot. “So, what happened after we left?”

Harrison stopped smiling and looked back towards the front of the club, where the police were whirling out a covered body on a gurney. A hush fell over everyone, but it seemed to be out of respect - not the same way they quieted the night before. He took a breath before he spoke. “It was late after the set. My buddy Tim was outside smoking with Oscar right before it happened. He didn’t even hear the commotion or anything - staff found him stabbed to death in the alley way.”

“They have a suspect?” Dean asked, before realizing how official he sounded.

It didn’t seem out of place enough to Harrison, who nodded. “Yeah. It was his girlfriend’s ex - he confessed right away. The guy was at the show - I dunno man, they didn’t have a bad breakup. They were sharing a beer and watching Oscar play last I saw, just being friendly.” He stopped and scratched the back of his neck. The sun was sweltering already, and Dean could feel the sweat beginning to form at his his temples.

“Anyway, doesn’t make much sense to me. But love makes you do crazy shit, sometimes.”

“Yes, it does.” Castiel’s voice growled right behind Dean’s ear, and it took every ounce of strength he had to ignore the shiver that slicked down his spine.  _ Time and place, Winchester. Time and place. _

The crowd had begun to dissipate, pairing off towards the open doors of the bars. Somewhere nearby someone was playing “Leaving New Orleans” on a lone clarinet. Dean felt restlessness crawl under his skin - he was pretty certain something was fishy here, but couldn’t quite put his finger on it. And was coming up empty on ideas on where to go next.

Harrison nodded back towards the club before bending to pick up the black case. “There’s a show tonight in memory of Oscar. Second line starts around six off of Royal and finishes here.”

Dean frowned. “Second line?”

“It’s a New Orleans funeral procession,” Castiel said, moving around Dean to stand at his side. He stuck his hand out to Harrison to shake. “It’s an honor to be invited - I know it’s typically a locals only tradition.”

“Yeah well, your pretty boy likes funk, so he might get a kick out of our bass section.” Harrison shook Castiel’s hand with a half smile. “I’ll catch y’all later.”

They watch Harrison run to join the rest of his bandmates as they crowd into the bar. Dean can feel the sun beating down his neck and damn, a beer sounds great right about now.

“Why don’t we do a little sight seeing?” He finds himself suggesting, still not sure what kind of terms he and Cas are on. Luckily, the angel, who had been tracking the people departing the scene, gives a tight smirk.

“We could see if there’s a hot sauce spicy enough to actually taste like something.”

Dean can’t help the grin that stretches across his face. It’s an olive branch - and he’ll take it.


	6. Chapter 6

Harrison had given them such vague directions, but luckily Dean can hear the second line before he sees it. Distant sound of trumpets and horns queuing up like an orchestra. A bleep there, a low held note there, but nothing rhythmic yet. They walk at a leisured pace along the street against the backdrop of a pink and orange sunset and a city just waking up. 

Each step is taken together, two by two. Dean watches their strides match, and wonders how often that happens - and how little he stops to pay attention.

Nothing more had been said about the night before or Castiel’s time in heaven for the rest of the afternoon. It still loomed above them like a stormcloud, but they somehow managed to make light conversation and spend a few hours looking around the city. Turns out not even the spiciest of hot sauces made a dent on an angelic palate, and Dean tried incredibly hard not to picture everything else he could experiment on Castiel’s tongue.

He also had purposefully not lead Castiel down Decatur, worried that another brush with that old gypsy woman would stir up what little peace they’d managed to find.

But in every action Cas took, he seemed to be holding back. The lines between his eyebrows didn’t fade during lunch. His shoulders seemed raised while browsing the outdoor market. Even now, maintaining a brisk pace next to each other, Dean could see Castiel’s hands flexing. He’s aching to say  _ something _ . Dean doesn’t know if he wants to hear it.

They round the corner and nearly slam themselves into a wall of people. On the one hand, Dean was thankful for the ridiculous turnout- this many people attending, there was probably a good chance that whatever or whoever was responsible for the murders would show itself. On the other hand if anything happened, this crowd would very quickly and dangerously turn into a herd of cattle and trample anything in their way.

Castiel tensed too, and Dean could see his hands fall still. A silvery glint from the inside of Castiel’s wrist caught his eye.

“Easy tiger,” Dean murmured, letting a hand grip Castiel’s forearm. It had the desired effect - and not for the first time, Dean contemplated why an all powerful angel of the Lord allowed himself to be ordered by an ordinary, powerless man in a battle situation. But he couldn’t help feeling a bit of pride too. Even when they’re at odds, Castiel still trusts Dean.

Maybe it was about time Dean showed him the same courtesy.

A long, somber note from a trumpet cut through the ambient noise. It was joined quickly by others, harmonizing and holding. Time seemed to stand still while they sat in the music. Then suddenly, the crowd began to move. Their pace wasn’t hurried, and Dean and Cas didn’t move immediately, wanting to fall back towards the end of the line. They were noticed but not leered at - the feeling was heavy and sad, but there was a sense of togetherness, even amongst strangers.

It was beautiful, actually. To become part of a single cohesive unit, to let the music lift you up and walk you down the middle of an emptied street. People had gathered along the sidewalk, and stood in the doorways and on rickety porches in silent observance.They matched strides again, letting the trumpet do the talking between them.

Despite the somber mood, Dean felt lighter. His chest rose and fell without the same heaviness that had sat squarely on his sternum since he was four years old. It felt like a damn miracle. Maybe there was something to the healing properties of voodoo? He didn’t feel like a spell had been cast, but there seemed to be no other explanation for his-

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was going to Heaven, Dean.” Castiel’s voice was close and strong, trying to be clear enough to be heard over the music. “I wanted to take care of this problem for you, but I failed.”

He didn’t know how much he needed to hear that Cas was sorry until the words were uttered. Another small part of that weight was fell from his chest. “I don’t care that you went to Heaven, man. I care that you didn’t tell me,” he said. They brushed shoulders, the crowd around them tightening. He turned his head to take in the sight of Cas at his side, his eyes the color of the sky in the harsh Louisiana sun. Personal space be damned - he needed to be close to him right now.

“I know.” Castiel bit his lip. “And I’m sorry. I’d say that it won’t happen again, but that wouldn’t be truthful. I will do whatever it takes to ensure you and your family’s safety, always.”

“Safety? Dammit Cas - when are you going to learn that you do more good for me by my side than anywhere else?” Dean felt his skin grow hot, but couldn’t keep the words from escaping. “I need you here, Cas. With Sam and me. I don’t need to feel like I can’t trust you.”

Castiel flinched, but kept his eyes steadily on Dean as they rounded a corner. “You can trust that I’m always going to be doing what’s in your best interest.”

“What's in my best interest Cas, is that you’re honest with me.” Dean said, wiping his damp forehead with the back of his hand. “You’re my best friend dude, and I’ve already got my mom and my brother lying to me - I can’t deal with it if you lie too.”

Beyond them, the street narrowed again and the area constricted. Someone on Dean’s left yelled at some people as they passed by. The ambient noise levels of the crowd seemed to be slowly increasing to match the volume of the bass section. It was getting harder to hear, so Castiel leaned in closer.

“Dean - I’ve not lied to you. I told you where I was.”

“Yeah well - you lied about other stuff.” Dean was quieter, breaking eye contact. He watched the toes of his boots kick debris in the street. “Like in the barn.”

Castiel was silent for a moment. When he did speak, the words were crisp. “What I said, in that barn, Dean - was not a lie. Why would you ever think that?”

“Maybe because you left right afterward?!”

Castiel’s eyes flashed as he leaned forward to catch Dean’s gaze. “Did it ever occur to you that I left because I love you?”

Dean could feel the blood boiling under his skin. He was this close to either hitting Castiel or kissing him, and he wasn’t sure which was going to win out. In the end he did neither, because suddenly he was shoved violently forward from behind.

“Hey-” he began to turn but then saw the beginnings of at least four different physical altercations starting up within a fifteen foot radius of where they were marching. Two men were pummeling a third - one woman pulling at another’s hair - a group of four young boys were throwing rocks at a fifth.

“Dean, look-” Castiel grabbed his shoulder. There wasn’t any need to point however, because it seemed as if suddenly, all around them, half of the people they were walking with were fighting. The others seemed to be trying to pull people apart and stop the progression of events.

Dean took a deep breath, the feel of the music still coursing through him. He cared about these people, he wanted to help them, find the source of their anxiety but - it was a detached feeling. Something he could easily set aside. His body ached instead to scream again at Castiel, to tell him how he couldn’t possibly love a screw up like him. How he should have left him and Sam ages ago. How he lies awake at night and the guilt of feeling like he shackled the angel to his horrific life plagues him as much as any atrocity he’s ever committed.

He’s straining to keep it all inside, the words battling his lips for an exit as the crescendo of the music still fills his ears. He looks at Castiel, and the angel’s teeth are clenched, like he was fighting his traitorous tongue as well, and suddenly, all of it, the confessions, the acts of violence, the words of the psychic - it all makes sense.

“It’s the music!” Dean shouts, and grabs Castiel’s hand.

They shoved their way towards the back of the baseline, where the rhythm was beginning to falter with each passing block. Musicians stopped playing in favor of fighting amongst themselves. By the time they reached it, only a few were left - among them Harrison, keeping a marching pace like a soldier into battle. His eye was blackened and his shirt ripped, but the sound of his trumpet was steady.

“Dean - there!” Castiel pointed at the trumpet player beside Harrison, who thus far appeared unscathed. “It’s - I’m pretty sure it’s that trumpet.”

Dean didn’t think - he just acted, reaching forward and punching the musician straight in the jaw. The impact sent the poor man straight to the ground, arms flailing and instrument blown from his lips. But it had the desired effect - the rest of the music stopped short, and so did half of the people on the street around them fighting.

“What the hell, man?” the trumpet player barked, a small trail of blood dripping from his mouth. Castiel bent and pried the object from his hands, ignoring the man’s protests. He eyed it critically, turning it over, smelling it, pinching it, holding it up against the sun.

“Your boyfriend really is the jealous type, ain't he?” Harrison smirked beside Dean, watching Castiel scrutinize the object in front of him.

“Back off, he knows what he’s doing.” Dean answered. It belatedly occurred to him that in the context of what Harrison just saw, he’s probably not making a lot of sense. Castiel glanced up with a small smile - flattered by Dean’s trust.

And Dean meant it - that’s why he reacted so quickly. He trusted Castiel’s judgment without question. Even when they were at odds with each other.

“It’s Pheme’s trumpet -  _ fascinating _ .” Castiel turned it over again in his hands with a newfound awe. “It’s been altered for sure, and its power somewhat diminished when it was melted down and reformed but - I am certain that’s what this is.”

“Who’s Pheme? She local?” Harrison asked as he helped the busted trumpet player to his feet.

“How did you acquire this?” Castiel asked the man, who wiped his lip with the back of his hand. He didn’t exactly look like he was in a conversational mood, so Dean grabbed him by the front of the shirt.

“Okay! Geeze, Tim willed it to me - guy that died?” Dean released him slowly. The guy brushed the front of his wrinkled shirt, very offended, but continued. “He got it from his friend Mark that died about a month back. Today was my first time playing it, I swear!”

“Was it stolen? You guys bounty hunters or something?” Harrison raised an eyebrow.

Dean smirked. “Something like that….”

“Interesting,” Castiel started as if he was going to continue his line of questioning, then thought better of it as he glanced up. “Maybe we should take this object elsewhere.”

Around them the other bass players had begun to circle. And it then occurred to Dean that while he was quick to trust Castiel’s judgment, neither of them had anticipated the consequence of punching out a musician in a street full….of other musicians.

“Gentlemen, I think we’re done here - we’ll be on our way…” Dean said, his hands raised as he searched for a quick exit through the swiftly closing line of bodies. He was reasonably certain he could take at least four of them, and Castiel could easily take another four, but there wasn’t exactly a shortage of pissed off people, and a brawl in the middle of the quarter was going to draw a lot of unwanted attention.

“Sean, is there a problem?” A booming voice rose from the crowd. Dean heard the distinct sound of an angelic blade falling from its canvas sheath, and groaned.

This was going to get really ugly, really fast.

“Nahhh, no problems.” Dean heard Harrison perk up from behind them. “Right Sean? Just a misunderstanding.”

“Yeah,” Sean grumbled, spitting on the asphalt beside him. “Fine, take it. Damn thing creeped me out anyway. Always sounded like it was humming all on it’s own.”

That was as good of an invitation as they were gonna get. Dean leaned back to grab Harrison's arm solidly. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“Get out of here, pretty boy.”

Dean didn’t need to be told twice - and as much as probably didn’t need to keep “playing the part,” he grabbed his angel’s hand and ran.


	7. Chapter 7

The ride back to the hotel was quiet insofar as neither man spoke. But around them the Impala roared in the summer heat, and between them the trumpet gave off a tin hum. It sounded like the tone from the edge of a copper bowl, and it sat in his ear like memory he couldn’t shake.

Inside their room, the noise dulled, at least to the point where it could be ignored easily enough. Dean tried to get the A/C working as Castiel fiddled with the valves, shaking it.

“So who’s Pheme anyway?” Dean kicked the unit and it burst to life, sputtering out dry, chilled air that couldn’t fill the stuffy room fast enough.

“Goddess of Gossup,” Castiel answered. “She used to sound her trumpet, compelling people ed to tell the truth. She was particularly fond of playing it in Piazza Venezia at midday.” He smiled to himself, remembering. “I asked her once why she liked to use it, if it started so many arguments. She said ‘if you hate the truth, then you deserve the consequences’. If you ask me, she was, as they say, a real drama queen.”

“Sounds like it.” Dean sat beside him on the edge of the bed. “So, cursed object then? I think I’ve got one of them special boxes in the car. I’ll just go-”

But Castiel had put the horn to his lips. And without glancing at Dean, he blew a clear note.

 

[](http://imgur.com/yWNd6vX)   
[](http://imgur.com/bt6Y3Al)

Dean clenched his hands, wanting to punch the damn thing out of Castiel’s mouth like he had on the street. Instead he opened his mouth against his better judgement and exclaimed:

“I want you!”

His words shot out of him like a bullet - straight across the small chasm between them. They struck Castiel, his blue eyes going wide.

He hardly moved at first - neither did. But slowly, Castiel peeled the brass from his lips, the shape of his mouth holding the pucker. Dean's heart did a samba in his chest, beating so loudly in his ears he wanted to hear the sound of that trumpet again, if only to drown it out.

There was no question if Dean had meant what he said. Their victory in finding the cause for the curse fell as flat as a diminished chord. There was only this tiny moment between them that stretched on for eons.

“How long?” Cas was tepid, as if the air between them could shatter like glass.

“Please don't make me say it,” came Dean's answer, a whispered plea. His heart was aching enough.

Castiel's shock turned to empathy, his eyes narrowing on Dean's lips. There was a decision in the movement, a shift in intention. Dean could feel the flush of red creeping up his neck.

“I think we’ve done enough talking.”

Castiel’s hands, free of the trumpet, stretched outward. One found a home on the catch of Dean’s jaw. The other reached around his neck, resting below his hairline. It was a first step, an offer. Like so many moments in their lives, Castiel was reaching halfway and waiting, so remarkably patiently, for Dean to make his move. To close the distance between them.

And although his treacherous heart beat wildly and his stomach pained from nerves, Dean’s never been more sure of an action he’d taken in his life. He closed his eyes and leapt.

They kissed like they were running out of time. It was hurried and wet and gnashing. A struggle for dominance at times and then the other would submit, the position of power switching as often as they’d take breath. Dean held the angel’s face between his palms, wanting to caress and scratch at the same time. To hold and be held. To push away and climb inside.

Castiel felt urgent as his hands left Dean’s face and roamed everywhere greedily. Hair and clothing were pulled. The sound of something tearing was barely heard over the sounds of grunted breaths. Underneath them the mattress moaned with their weight shifting.

“What do you need, Dean?” Castiel managed to mumble against Dean’s mouth. So typical, his asking about Dean’s needs, even now. It made him want to crumble under the weight of the angels undying devotion.

But he’s never been able to articulate such things in so many words. Dean just recognizes them like distant sirens and takes. He clutched at Castiel’s coat and fell backwards, pulling the man down ontop of him. Castiel isn’t in anyway slight - though shorter, he was solid and warm. Thick thighs parted on either side of Dean’s hips. He felt contained, like Castiel’s weight was keeping him from breaking apart.

It was a slow dance, the two of them moving together on an old comforter. Castiel seemed to not be able to decide where he wanted his hands more, fitting them under Dean’s shirt, splaying them across his ribs. His nail clumsily caught a nipple. Dean groaned.

“Sorry.” Castiel pulled back a little to survey the damage. His eyebrows drew together as he lifted Dean’s shirt, moving to press a finger against the tiny scratch. A bead of scarlet pooled on the thin skin.

“It’s - fine.” Dean couldn’t find words. He was lost in the way Castiel was looking at his bare chest - half hungry, half concerned - utterly  _ consumed _ . A bomb could go off right next to them and he wouldn’t look away. The angel’s finger stopped just short of the scrape. Instead he angled his head down and slowly, took the damage into his mouth.

Dean could feel the cold zap of grace as his flesh came together, but was overwhelmed with warmth. It occurred to him belatedly that Castiel’s sexual experiences amounted to exactly twice, and only once ‘successfully’ if you could call it that. Any action he’s taking right now is pure instinct or something he’s picked up along the way. As much as Dean had hit his limit of chick flick feelings moments in the last two days, he knew his best friend. Cas needed words, instruction, encouragement.

If he was going to do this - he was going to do it right.

“Cas, hey,” he started with a gulp, hating how wrecked his voice already sounds. The angel looked up from his task, his iries’ blown with lust. “I know what I said but - we don’t have to do this. We don’t have to do anything at all, really.”

Castiel fixed him with a puzzled look, and something in his face dropped. “Do you want to stop?”

“No!” Dean practically yelped. “I just - I know it’s been a while, for you, and you haven’t had the greatest track record...”

“Your chivalry is noted, Dean, but unnecessary. You’ve not had a sexual experience with a man before, correct?”

Dean gulped, the words heavy in his throat. “No.”

Castiel offered a smile, small and confident. “Do you want one?”

“I don’t know Cas - that boner poking your leg might be a pretty strong indication-”

Dean's smart mouth was quickly occupied with an alternative to talking. He briefly considered taking charge - flipping Cas on his back, playing the part of the patient instructor, leading him through this experience. As rash of a person as Dean was, he can't help his desire to take care of his sexual partner, no matter how close they are. And Cas was - well he is - it's just different with him.

Different than it's ever been with anyone.

But he can't seem to bring himself to do it, because the pressing weight of the angel was stabilizing and arousing him in equal parts. Somewhere along the way they'd lost the top half of their clothing, and they both sighed at the feel of bare skin moving together. Castiel lost himself kissing his way down Dean's neck, across his collarbone, down his sternum. He bit the other nipple and Dean arched.

And then it happened.

If he’s being honest, it had been happening gradually - though the events of the last few days had certainly sped up the process considerably. Each time he looked at Cas, everytime his wandering eye fell to a precarious bulge. The quick suppression. The way he ran from the truth of his desire, even from himself. Culminating in this one moment, as he watched Castiel’s full mouth descend slowly, pointedly, to where his jeans were still buttoned.

His big gay panic. 

The blood in his veins froze as his mind raced anywhere but here, first trying to distance himself from what was about to happen and what it would mean. Is he gay now? But he likes breasts? Does he also like dick? He shifted his leg caught between Castiel’s, the evidence of his arousal hard against shin. It made his dick twitch. That was good right?

His eyes refocused on that mop of hair, now turning to look back up at Dean. Castiel’s eyes were clear and shining and - and everything. Everything Dean had ever dared to ask from the world, more than that, actually, were contained in those blue eyes that looked up at him as if to say “Can I go further? Can I bring you more joy?”

The truth is, if he asked Cas to stop right now, there isn’t any question that he would. The angel would nod, and clear his throat and tuck his exposed heart away. He’d never speak on it again if Dean didn’t want him to. And he’d continue, every day until Dean died, to use his body and his power to make sure Dean was safe and happy. He wouldn’t even think twice.

And suddenly the thoughts where he landed on the Kinsey scale seemed so much less important. This moment wasn’t about a new position or tasting dick for the first time. This moment was about Cas.

“Tell me what you want, Cas.”

The question seemed to stump the angel, and he raised himself a little from his position, hovering over Dean’s belly. “You. I thought that was obvious.”

Dean rolled his eyes and held out his arms. “Come here.”

Cas brought himself to lay flush with Dean, propping his head up on his palm. His body language was causal, but there was a tightness to his lips. Dean kissed the edge of them softly and they loosened.

“I want to make you feel good,” he continued. And he meant it, slowly pushing the angel onto his back. Cas went easily, watching Dean move over him in quiet fascination. They kissed again, sharper this time. Dean caught a full lip between his teeth and nipped. Underneath him, the angel shuddered.

Kissing Cas was like entering a hot bath - shocking at first, but the more he eased himself in, it filled him with a comfortable warmth. He moved his way across stubble, down the long muscles of his neck. Cas made these breathy moans unencumbered, exhaling through his mouth as Dean descended. He bit and marked and swiped his tongue across the expanse of Castiel’s chest as it rose and fell. 

“Move up on the bed a little,” Dean patted the side of Castiel’s thigh and he obeyed, still keeping an eye on Dean as he shifted towards the headboard. He reached it too quickly and smacked the back of his head against it in his haste.

“How’d that feel?” Dean smirked as Castiel groaned, closing his eyes for a moment. There was a flush to his cheek and chest that wasn’t entirely from arousal - but Dean thought he’d never looked hotter. Half propped up, half naked, his hair wild. The afternoon sun poured through the window, hitting just the top of his head. For a moment, it looked like he had a halo. When he opened his eyes again and looked at Dean somewhat abashed, it disappeared.

“Sobering.” Castiel answered, his voice low. He looked as if he wanted to call things off, so suddenly embarrassed. He stopped looking that way as Dean stood and took off the rest of his clothes.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, it’s way too hot to be doing this clothed.” Dean crawled back up the bed, spreading himself over Castiel’s still buttoned slacks. “Mind if I-?”

It was a dumbass question. He wasn’t surprised at the smart ass look he received in response.

The slacks thrown across the room, the energy between them sparked anew. Dean resumed his task, kissing down the length of Cas. Half engaged in foreplay, and half adjusting himself to the feel of a male body beneath his. The panic was gone, completely replaced by a powerful sense of arousal. He was so hard, he thought he could genuinely break in half if he wasn’t careful.

And Cas was just as hard and leaking against Dean’s neck as he kissed around, to the side. Sucking little marks on jutted hip bones. Wanting to taste every inch of exposed skin.

“Are you this much of a tease with all of your partners, Dean, or are you just trying to-”

Castiel’s sentence ended in a moan as Dean took him into his mouth. The angel was in no manner quiet; tiny whines escaped Castiel’s lips like someone was letting all of the steam out of him slowly. Dean found he enjoyed sucking on a dick, to his surprise. It was actually easier. He knew what this felt like, because he owned one - there wasn’t really a learning curve here. And he could quickly achieve what he really wanted - Castiel to come apart underneath him.

At some point, the angel began to grasp at Dean, trying to grab onto whatever he could reach as an anchor. A shoulder, Dean’s short hair - even at one strange point, an ear. Dean thought about stopping to check in, make sure he was feeling good. But what was the point when the words escaping the angel (between moans) were just “Dean!” “Please!” “Yeah, like that…” and more often than not, a simple, but emphatic “YES”.

“Dean, I think I-” Castiel could hardly get the words out as Dean reached down, smoothing his fingers along the edge of his balls. The angel was close.

“I know,” he stopped for a moment and just stroked, long and solid as their eyes met. “I want you to come Cas. I’ve got you.”

Cas nodded as Dean bent to his task again, relishing in the feel of Castiel bucking his hips. Letting his focus narrow down to Dean’s mouth and the feeling of all encompassing warmth. He came with a cry, Dean swallowing him through it. It was a little awkward, but not bad. And certainly something he could get used to if it meant watching Cas fall apart, and then turn into a puddle on floral sheets. The angel struggled for breath, his eyes half lidded, his mouth drawn to a sideways smile.

Dean kissed above his heart as he moved to rest beside Cas, watching him regain composure. “So, was that ok?”

Castiel laughed, closing his eyes and crinkling his nose. He looked so joyful in that moment, like Dean had never seen him before. Breathless, toothy, and relaxed. It was beautiful.

Without looking at Dean, he answered, “Don’t ask stupid questions.”

“Good, because otherwise-”

Dean was cut off by the hulking form of his partner pushing him over quickly onto his back. Castiel was on him like a cat, stalking and biting and unnaturally fast. He kissed Dean like he fought - rough and powerful. Any disappeared erection from relaxing in Castiel’s aftermath was suddenly back with a vengeance and then the angel’s mouth was upon him.

He yelped and moaned, flattening himself on the bed at a strange angle, not even caring about the crick in his neck. He actually didn’t feel any of the rest of his body at all. Not with that hot tongue and full lips circling him, swallowing him down like they’d never even heard of a gag reflex.

“God, Cas - I - hgnnn-” he tried, but the angel seemed to redouble his efforts to shut him up. It worked.

There was no foreplay here, just Cas trying to suck his brains out through his dick. And it was working. The angel was insatiable. Dean clung to sheets, feeling the pool of orgasm settle between his hips. Sweat dripped from his temples, despite the growing chill of the room. Thrusting and clenching, some vain part of him was trying to hold on for a “respectable” amount of time. Until Cas pulled gently, solidly at his balls. The angel moaned, actually moaned, as Dean came hard in his mouth. Moaned like the taste of Dean on his tongue gave him life.

“Holy shit,” was all Dean could mutter in a daze as he came down. His entire body was on fire, every nerve hypersensitive to Castiel’s touch. The angel ran his fingers lightly down the planes of Dean’s chest as it heaved. Dean closed his eyes to it, needing to feel that warmth, that presence. Needing to narrow his focus to the angel’s fingertips.

After a moment, they went away. Dean quietly begged, “Don’t stop. Please, Cas.”

He opened an eye to see Castiel watching him carefully. The angel nodded, laying down beside Dean and curling himself around him, tangling their legs together. They were a sweaty, sticky mess but for the moment that didn’t seem to matter. Castiel’s hand was warm as it ran down Dean’s arm, stopping for a moment to grasp where his handprint used to linger. Where Dean sometimes still finds himself grasping in moments where he feels the most afraid, to remind himself of the bond with his angel. The bond that just changed drastically in the last hour.

Dean lost track of time the longer they laid there. The sun cast pink and yellow streaks across their hotel room wall, then faded entirely. Soon the only light in the room was from the porch outside. They didn’t sleep really, but Dean let himself think of nothing but how grounded he felt in Castiel’s arms. Winchester life was always going to be a whirlwind, probably up until some apocalypse took them out. But here, in the quiet, feeling the even heat of Castiel’s breath against his collarbone, he could feel a sense of something that had been dormant a long time - hope.

“Now what?” Castiel said, his voice gentle.

Dean squeezed the angel in his embrace a little tighter. “I dunno, man, I’m hungry. You wanna order in or go out?”

Castiel snorted but finally sat up. The side of Dean’s body that had been warmed by a naked angel flushed with goosebumps as the new chill of the room hit it. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You mean my big panic? Is that what you’re asking about?” Castiel nodded as Dean moved to stand. “Dude, been there, done that. Got the postcard.”

“Right so, now we just have sex and that’s a totally normal occurrence?”

Dean bent and picked up his boxers - no wait, these were Castiel’s boxers. Well that’s an unexpected side effect of screwing a dude - underwear confusion. He gave them a courtesy sniff and grinned when Castiel’s eyes widened, slightly horrified. With a shrug, he pulled them on.

“Do you want it to be?” Dean challenged. Though a small part of him, that small part that was still freaking out and probably would be for some time, grew a teensey bit louder. He had no idea what Castiel thought of a romantic relationship or how this should play out. It was obvious that he cared for Dean but it wasn’t as if he’d ever seen Cas take someone out on a date. He tried not to look completely panicked as Castiel raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not opposed.”

“Good. Me neither.”

Dean went to the bathroom and ran a wet washcloth down his chest and neither regions. He returned to the bedroom, now illuminated by the bathroom light only, to an angel that hadn’t moved.

“Dude, get dressed - let's go. I’m starving.”

“Dean this isn’t-” Cas started, then seemed to think better of it and closed his mouth. He looked down and began to hunt through their pile of clothes.

“Hey,” Dean reached for him, realizing the direction of that question. Castiel stopped and looked up, still naked. The lines of his face were shadowed in the limited light - the joy that had been there now vanished. Dean ached to see him, and instead wrapped one arm around his waist, the other reaching forward to wipe the cool wet towel down his chest. “This isn’t - this isn’t just sex to me, Cas. I hope you know that. I meant what I said earlier.” He paused, and took a good look into tired blue eyes. “This thing, between us, it’s fucking rare. I’m not any good at saying it but - this, you - this is what I want. Have wanted, for a long time.”

He let his hand travel further down, wiping sweat and dried come away gently, until he cupped Castiel completely. The angel hissed and let his head fall against his shoulder. “Good,” he said, his voice rough.

The bulge his hand grew harder.

“Again?”

Castiel snorted. “Of course not, you’re hungry.”

Dean chuckled, tossing the towel onto the desk, and quickly returned his hand. Castiel hissed again, biting Dean’s neck. God, it was impossibly easy, the way their two bodies fit against each other. Like the pieces of his life were just starting to fit back into place.  

“I can get a po boy twenty four hours a day in this town - we’ve got time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments are my lifeblood and I'd love it if you let me know what you thought!


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